


a love as lethal as a sword

by jetblacklilac



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, big ass au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22214584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetblacklilac/pseuds/jetblacklilac
Summary: Jon is the legitimized bastard son of the King. He trains and trains to keep the dark thoughts away from his mind. And Sansa, his fair cousin, visiting as his brother courts her, well, her smile makes everything a bit more tolerable.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 119





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> idk what the hell this is. elia is alive yes... (i will fix the typos when i can) i do hope its alright oh and that knight is an OC forgot abt that....

For Jon, nothing makes more sense than a merciless training in the yard. 

His sense of anticipation, reading his opponent from the moment they stand before him these are the things Jon values. Much more than the lessons he has to endure, he shudders at the thought. 

“More often than not, you are on your back and watch the sky.” Sir Alric jibes. His mentor stood over him, his face withered by wars and age, lights up in amusement. He offers a hand and helps the prince to stan on his feet. 

Jon brushes the dirt out of his shirt but it was no use, the mud will stick long enough for Elia to notice and scold him during lunch. “I think you rather enjoy giving a prince his daily beatings.” He proposes, retrieving his sword but winces at the action. The attack on his shoulder from earlier is showing its effects. “Damn, that was quite a lesson.”

Sir Alric pats his injured shoulder. “Chin up, boy. Girls like confidence and it is more fitting in a prince like yourself.” His grey eyes flitted up the ramparts. 

He looks up and to his complete surprise, it was Princess Sansa. Chagrin is near tangible at the fact she’s seen him lose. Anyone down on the dirt can see her flaming red hair and the beauty that goes along with it. “That girl is to be my brother's bride, sir.” He corrects in a guarded tone despite the pink pushing against his tanned cheeks. 

“Your father did not let such a temporary agreement stop him.” Sir Alric suggested.

Without warning, the older knight strikes at Jon. His student is quick to dodge, his sword glows orange; a signal of his readiness and to show what element runs in his blood. Fire, like of his family, warms his blood. As much as he denies this of shame, he is part dragon, a fierce and greedy creature that has terrorized men and inferior creatures. 

Jon blocked the advanced directed to his right; it was tricky seeing as how he’s right-handed and he’d need to move to the left to avoid a slash on his thigh… yet again. “What Father did, I shall never do. History is a cautionary lesson.” He panted, edging away from Sir Alric. “And I care for consequence and the hurt I shall inflict on those involved if ever I act upon such foolish deeds.”

They circled in caution and they clashed, as impulsive as knights are when engaged with drawn weapons. Steels sang, ringing sweetly in his ears, similar to how Elia loves those songs of opera. The sun above invoked perspiration to coat his skin, sunlight almost blinded him but he has to stay vigilant unless he wants another wound on his cheek.

The thing about fighting a knight is, well, he’s quite skilled. The old man has seen and fought wars with his uncle. The blade that scraped his cheek has pierced through flesh, killed enemies. His taunts aggravated Jon. 

_You want to be a knight, boy? You’re a pampered bastard, most of your lot are discarded, shamed upon but not you, no you’re legitimized and favoured by your father, a king no less! Maybe the lust that governs you can be useful in battle, eh?_

Jon’s lips curled into a sneer at this memory. He was momentarily blinded with rage and his opponent knew it. The next thing he knew, the old man swiped at his face and knocked the breath out of his lungs. 

“I can see your father’s temper in your eyes.” Sir Alric approaches, sword raised but Jon blocks his attempt, so near his neck. “Use that constant fire that simmers in you. Fire purifies and gives life. What will you burn for, boy?” 

_For my family; the side of my mother and father. The wolf and dragon in me that despise each other._ Jon thinks before slamming his blade against his foe’s, the best of steels colliding in the most violent ways. His sword may be new and shines; meanwhile Sir Alric’s sharpened but has seen its years. “Fire and blood.” He answers but the words tasted bitter and wrong on his tongue. Should he have said the Stark words? Is he even worthy?

He swiftly executed a counterattack to the knight’s left and easily detected jabs. “I am a Targaryen and I _will_ fight for my family.” _I’m a Stark, by rights of my mother. I will fight for the right for such declarations, in any way that I can._

“Defend yourself first!” His foe cries and tries for the right swipes one more. 

Jon jumped to his left. He weighs the custom sword, finding it to bear the perfect weight only for him to appreciate. He lifts his blade, pointing it to his mentor. “My blood is just as merited as a Stark like my mother’s.” 

“And of your other relations? The dragon that has burned people alive? What of _that_?” Sir Alric baited. 

Jon held his sword with two hands to not fall on his knees like past lessons. His jaw clenches as the knight’s sword damn near touches his nose. Pushing away, Jon uses this split moment separation to roughly press his elbow on Sir Alric’s side. The old man grunts and Jon rests his blade on his opponent’s neck. 

_Rhaenys smiled as Jon pouted. Leaning forward, she ruffles Jon’s curls. “You may not look like us but you are one of us. The blood that flows in the King, you have it as well. You’re incredibly clever, Jon. You win at chess against Aegon and Mama! You have winter and fire in your veins. Believe in yourself, yes?”_

“I yield.” Sir Alric declared for the first time. His grin begets Jon’s as well. “You’ll make a fine knight, maybe even a Kingsguard if you correct your deplorable stances.” He affectionately pats Jon’s head of curls. 

Jon wipes the sweat and dirt on his forehead. “Yes sir.” 

Exiting the courtyard, there is a group of simpering ladies, giggling and talking to themselves. He stood a foot away from them and their faces reddened more. _Do they have fever? The court physician is on the other side of the castle._

“Good afternoon, Prince Jon. You’re such an excellent fighter.” The ladies greeted him.

His current state of dirted clothes and disastrous countenance had not offended them. Perplexed, because Elia would have scolded him out of motherly outrage, Jon bows and stares as they giggle once more. 

Jon entered his bedroom and ri[s the shirt off his profusely aching and perspired body. Everything stuck to him and he hated it. Closing his eyes, he splashes cold water to his face by the basin of water on the table. 

He hears the door close and instructed, “Felix, be quick about my bath and fetch me a pitcher of water. That damn knight delights in insulting my _stances_ ; out of all the things to be mad about, he despises how I stand!”

“As you wish, my prince.”

He opened his eyes at hearing such a tender voice. Felix has a deeper voice than what his ears have heard. Turning around, he gawks as Princess Sansa relayed to a maid what Jon has said to _her_ then beams at him. Like nothing of this unexpected visit is improper and notably done with enigmatic purposes. 

Or is it he who puts such malice on a friendly pop in? 

“Princess?” Jon calls then to add to his confusion and embarrassment; he is not wearing his shirt. He grabs a robe by the bed, hastily tying it but his chest is still revealed. 

Her azure gaze searched his appearance. “Water?” She motioned to the pitcher the maid gave. She poured a glass and hands it to him. She stood within decorum’s distance but of everything else, she violates. 

He drains the drink in one gulp and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you.” 

“My, you’re hurt!” Princess Sansa noted, her nimble fingers almost touching his injured cheek but she pauses. She dashes to his vanity, dips a towel in the wash bin and motions to the cushioned seat. “Please, sit down.” 

Jon wants to make a joke but he obliges her anyways. “Tis nothing but a scratch, I assure you.” He chuckles, tilting his neck so she could clearly notice it is nothing but a slide of a sword on skin. “A moon ago, he slammed his sword on my side I swore I stopped breathing!”

“Your injuries are not jokes, Prince Jon.” The princess scolds, cleaning the insignificant wound with a cool cloth. Her heavily clothed knees brush against his as she continues her self-declared task. 

“There are graver sights in a real battle, my lady.” Jon replies. 

His lungs cradle her scent of peach and lavender into the very air he breathes. He could almost taste it, the flowers, her sweetness found upon her smiles and laughter. Does her skin taste the same?

_You lusting fool. She is to marry the heir to the throne, not the second choice with no crown to offer._ The more rational voice of his mind reminded him. 

His spine snapped at how rigid he sat, skin burning at the feel of her soft fingers on his neck. Staring up at herm the walls of his throat tightened in sinful delight at Princess Sansa’s parted mouth, pink rose petals as lips. Winter in her eyes so deeply blue in shade Jon is certain he’s drowning in them. His hands are curled on his knees, to prevent the want in hauling her on his lap like she’s a waitress at a tavern. 

“Sir Alric nicked your neck as well.” She grieves excessively in seriousness. Thin brows lowered to her eyes. She places the cloth on the wound. “He’s too harsh on you.”

“He has to be.” Jon insisted, wincing when the towel skimmed the deeper part of the cut. “I have to be well-trained. I have to be good enough to fight, to be decent at least.” 

Princess Sansa steps back, twisting the towel and rinses it in water. She glances at him. “But Jon, you’re a worthy man already.” She whispers. “You’re an incredibly kind and honourable man.”

Jon thinks he will always seek validation. The court does not approve of how he outranks them all, despite the origin of his birth, the circumstances of why he lives. He is still the King’s legally legitimized son, the closest person to the Targaryen heir. He’ll prove himself worthy until he has silenced the doubts in his mind and in everyone else’s. 

So this, a direct praise outside of family, her affectionate words has burned in his mind, will serve as a secret motivation from now on. What has he done to receive such a praise from someone like her?

He smiles. “You may say so but I must prove myself-”

“In exchange for a bruised and bloody body?” The princess intervenes, her tone is high. She moves away from him, eyes shut tight, and her wet hands press down on her lilac dress. “I, I apologize for such unwarranted concerns.” She mumbles, not looking at him. “But if you march into battle with such purpose, to bleed for duty, Jon, you would die for honour and a feeling that you truly deserve your name.” Her arms circle on her waist. “It will be the end of you.”

Jon is properly stunned. He isn’t verbose like Aegon but ways to navigate through conversations were taught to him when he’s in a ball or a dinner. How is he to approach a teary eyed princess? His tutors failed him in this scenario.

Their relation is found in the past, as children; even at that it’s quite distant for he has always played with Robb and Arya. Now, society, her possible marriage to his brother, and his tied tongue, prevents anything else to happen. She shouldn’t be in his room, cleaning his wound like she’s a fretting wife, doting on her husband so devoutly. 

“Honour and duty are earned, not freely given.” Jon declares, standing up and places a hand on her shoulder. 

She looks at him, eyes of profound blueness are watery, her lower lip trembling like how raindrops would slide down a flower’s petal. “And these feelings are enough to go on with life?”

“We are not the common folk, princess. We have our battles to fight and duties to perform.” He stiffly says. 

It is laughable, ironic, even he utters these words. How can he speak of things like these as though his own isn’t borne out of complication? Runaway royals were his parents, disgraceful he knows. Jon knows the cruel whispers behind his back, his hand swipes on the pommel of his sword but he has to resist. Not every fight is handled with a sword. 

Sansa said those words to him once. When his father called upon him to live at King’s Landing and he has no choice but to pack and obey. In the winter, frost cradles her head of copper locks like a crown, her cheeks pink by the cold; Jon thought it’s the most enchanting image he has of his cousin. 

“I suppose it is a fool’s task to hope like a child.” She softly laughs, sadly. “Some things are harder to abide than a sword.” 

“An example perhaps?”

Crimson red blooms so enticingly on her porcelain skin. Jon is enthralled. “Feelings, a care, the sort found in songs maidens sing.” She answers, tucking strands of her hair behind her ear. 

“Your bath, Prince Jon.” A maid called by the hallway.

The spell of bewitchment and silence is broken. They awkwardly shuffled away, mindful of the eyes of the maids trained on the floor, as they carry the copper tub in his room. A boy carries hot water and bows at them. 

“I should leave you to your bath then.” Princess Sansa says, more clumsily than she was a moment ago, earnest in her declaration of something Jon will pretend to not understand. She turns to the door but Jon holds her hand. Her face brightens up, like a flower blooming under the sun’s gentle light. 

Jon does not break eye contact when he kisses the bump of her knuckles. He ignores the glances the servants throw at their direction, no doubt gossip will swiftly take form before he sinks in the waters. “Good day, princess.” He murmurs, so close to her hand, his mouth still tingles at touching her impossible soft skin. 

“As to you.” Princess Sansa returns then exits, holding the hand he kissed close to her stomach. 

Perhaps, he is his father’s son, in a sense. 

  
  



	2. the dragon bends at the wolf's vicious snarl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i tried to write in aegon's POV i hope it isn't TOO horrible. like, i tried and i think that kind of, sort of, hopefully, makes up for it. (btw my name is andrea without an h) i hope this bit is okay. im not rlly good at action scenes or a medieval setting so read at ur own risk!

Aegon’s younger sister attending the festival made everything worse in the end. 

Rhaenys stayed at Dorne for the past few moons, enjoying the brilliant sun, golden dusk hills and rough terrain; completely different from the Capital of Westeros. Sometimes, Aegon’s sister reveals, she tries to escape Father’s plan to have her wed. One of the ways to show their family is turning a fresh page is to arrange a wedding from a _different_ and equally advantageous marriage.

But black blood lingers in their veins. He feels it when anger warms the dragonblood and irrationality is more innate than sense and politics. _Burn them all for what can they battle against dragons but frantic and unheard prayers and feeble weapons?_

He hates thinking this way.

It’s been a handful of moons since Aegon has seen her. Though they often correspond, he missed her loud laughter and her bad jokes.

Mother wrote to his sister, urging the princess to return for the Festival of Harvests. _This time's for rejoicing with the ones you love. The Maiden cares for us all as I do with you, sweet and strong daughter._

Father is painstakingly obvious in Rhaenys’ return because it means more time to sell her to the highest bidder. It was uncomfortable to witness his delight and lilting adoration, a clever disguise for the want of power, to make sure _their_ name stretches on every corner of the kingdom they conquered through their family’s words.

_My sister is as wild and unbound like the dragons of our crest. She cannot be contained in a castle. She’ll burn it to the ground, along with her poor but wealthy husband._ But Aegon made no such proclaims, only a hearty embrace and lets her dot on him like when they were younger. 

“I’m only here for the markets. Maybe the locals have new things I haven’t seen.” Rhaenys declares, letting the maids arrange her ivory white dress carefully. “And you, my dear brothers, you’re coming with me.” 

Aegon tried to reject, already sensing Father’s disapproval of the plan. He has to stay within the castle, sit next to his parents and the almost mute Jon discuss the ball. He could even join Jon’s sparring or _finally_ ask the princess to see the gardens. 

But Rhaenys is, perhaps, the only person to oppose the King and _win_ an argument. She has Mother’s determination, the court have whispered, because if someone else has defied King Rhaegar to his face; they’d suffer a more prominent punishment than a cold shoulder. 

It does not help Rhaenys that she’s the precise imitation of their mother. Aegon has seen countless of portraits, identical bush of tawny curls, her lips are strawberries, round cheeks always drawn up as she smiles and smiles but her eyes of an old tree trunk tells a different story. 

It turns out, Mother and Rhaenys wants to see the festival downtown and invited the children to join. Father declined, uses an excuse of important meetings as more lords than usual have filled the halls. While that is true, Aegon catches the scowl on his mother's face. 

He, Jon, and Princess Sansa endured endless lessons from Rhaenys of the various herbs and flowers that are on displays, on sale. Jon yawned more than once, entertaining their guest, but Mother was genuinely interested in her daughter's knowledge and interviewed her with interest. Apparently, Rhaenys read a lot during her time in Dorne and Aegon honestly could not think of a more boring hobby than reading about mundane things like plants and flowers. 

He ignores how the Northern Princess shyly asks as well, intrigued and perhaps had gotten infected with his sister's joy. Aegon isn't surprised at that.

Jon proposed they danced and Aegon and Sansa did but the dance routine required them to switch partners. The crowd was immense, people pooling at the town center and the sweat and heat meant little to their enjoyment of the festivities. 

Admittedly, Aegon got carried away by the local beauty. Girls queued to dance with him and perhaps they suspected him a prince because of his white hair, the finery of his regalia, and the amethyst for eyes that shined in charming mirth.

His weakness has always been colourful skirts to chase, to skim his fingers on their hips and soft skin. He never stood a chance.

Later that evening, Jon is withdrawn and Father doesn’t comment on his usual behaviour. The women make the meal lively with their giggles and wonder of the festival. Father chimes in, once in a while, to add more facts and history about their country. When has Father _not_ portray the charming man? Aegon is relieved the Princess enjoyed her time dancing, even when he snuck in the castle with a serving maid. 

“Aegon, I heard a singular chatter today.” Mother’s scrutinizing eyes harden as she lowers her spoon into the soup. 

_Her spies,_ Aegon thinks in discomfort. Now he’s thoroughly regretting the impulsive idea of bringing the nameless commoner in the castle. Of course the queen would have a network of eyes on the stonewalls and castle grounds. It does not surprise Aegon, he just _forgot_. 

“Oh?” Aegon hums, trying desperately to not exhibit his nervousness, at the steel in her tone, and Jon’s curious and annoyed expression aimed at him. He wants to apologize to everyone, for being stupid, for dreaming too much and tries to ignore his responsibilities but then, she reveals what he fears her spies have informed her. 

“Jon has forcefully escorted some deluded girl away from the gardens. And that the girl has been trying to… seduce you? Is that true?”

Distinct reactions were seen. Father snapped his eyes to his heir as though he shot an arrow loose from the bow. Rhaenys gapes in mortification. Jon asked for a refill of water in his silver cup. Princess Sansa did not move, looked as though she didn’t breathe.

The King turns to his bastard son, chewing on grilled tomatoes. “Is it true?” He gruffly demands. 

Jon makes a show of suspense in drinking his water. He glances at Aegon, blanched and wide eyed. “Yes, Father, the serving girl stole from the kitchens and tried to kiss Aegon. The girl was insane, I tell you! She spoke to him in no titles as though they know each other.” He scoffs with righteous fury. “Can you believe that, Your Highness? The utter nerve of a lowly commoner!”

The tense atmosphere lightened and the adults relaxed on their velvet seats. Aegon could _not_ relax, mildly gawks at Jon for saving his ass. 

The Queen sighs. “Maybe we should double the guards around our sons, my love?” She suggested in genuine worry.

Father shook his head. “No, no, people beneath his station will always try to deceive and want him.” He replies. 

“Maybe she was drunk from the festival. It was such a glorious thing to witness after all these years!” Rhaenys praises and another conversation was launched in delight and nostalgia.

Father studied his son intensely, a scowl ruining his handsome face. “Why were you here, my son? I thought the royal family went down to celebrate.” He asked but a king never asks. His voice is hard as diamonds, impossible to decipher or name emotions in his words. 

Aegon, in his life, never anticipated lying to the King, his father. If he confirms it, then he could seriously injure Princess Sansa’s pride. She represents the North and if she’s hurt, _he_ is in the process of burning the rickety bridge Father is desperately trying to rebuild.

“I wanted to take a break from the dancing and the mob, Father.” He replies, eating a spoonful of the salad. “There are more people than last year.”

“Oh, that’s because of the whiting competition. I was asked to be judged by one of the lords. And I chose the brilliant weirwood tree.” Rhaenys reveals to the table. She turns to Princess Sansa. “Say, princess, the North is famed for such a tree. Perhaps you would like to have it? It’s no bigger than a brush.”

The redhead grins, dimples denting her cheeks. “I would be honoured of such a present, princess.” She agrees. 

Aegon wonders when has _he_ given his supposed wife a gift?

The next day, Jon goes to him in stride that told Aegon of his aggravation. He was on his way to lessons when his brother stopped him. “Morning?” He greets in uncertainty.

“Bastard.” Jon growls, his hand tightens on his sword, unanticipated and effectively intimidating Aegon. “Did you know what happened when you left the princess on the dance floor yesterday?”

He racked his brain and shakes his head. All he knew was that she was also sent up the castle and she didn’t stay long after dinner because her feet ached from all the dancing and walking.

The shorter boy moves forward, his hand hadn’t held the sword yet but it stayed on the jeweled pommel. “Last night, she told me men groped her because they knew not of her true name. Damn drunken men nearly dragged her to the fucking alley but thankfully, a guard recognized her and escorted her to the castle.” He divulges under a hiss. “And she didn’t want to alert anyone by saying so, you _damn_ and _stupid_ boy!”

Aegon’s heart sunk in the waves of guilt. He hadn’t known because the princess didn’t show any signs of distress. She was quiet, constantly listening to Rhaenys’ chatter; and smiles at him when he happened to glance at her.

He stiffens and eyed Jon. “Last night? Brother, you were alone with the princess?” 

When has Jon ever shown interest to a girl before? He’s too enthralled by his ambitions that he doesn’t stop and notice all the girls fawning at his feet. So this is new and complicating to Aegon.

Jon’s mouth curled in distaste. “Oh, are you scandalized by _that_ but visit every brothel with a purse of gold coins?” He spits out then backs away, spine rigid in tension and his hands curled at his side. “She could’ve gotten hurt, you imbecile. She only wanted your goddamn attention but no, you’re too busy putting whores on their backs.”

“Jon, I _swear_ I did not mean to leave the princess. I would never put her in danger that way.” Aegon explodes, shouting just as much as Jon did. He must’ve said the wrong thing because Jon’s misty eyes are radiant with indignation. 

“Let’s go to the training yard.”

Aegon blanched faster than thought possible. He wanted to hold onto Jon’s retreating figure and proclaim a thousand apologies. Fighting against his brother is an appalling thought but to be up against one of the strongest swordsman in the kingdom? That is utter folly in his part.

“We-we have lessons-”

“ _-Fuck_ the lessons. Fuck those dead people I care not for. This, _this_ decides the course of our history. And I shall teach you a lesson right now!” Jon shouted. “Words mean nothing to you so I shall approach a different way, brother.”

If their mother were here, he’d get an earful of sermons in her high pitched angered voice. _A prince doesn’t resort to such foul language to express himself_ ; something Mother would say.

His legs could not move, Jon’s booming voice ringing in his ears. Hesitation is more appealing now more than ever because if he agrees, Jon could very well hurt him in his narrowed vision when he’s pissed. Emotional people like Jon don’t sit through peaceful talks. No, he picks up a sword, points it at his enemy, despite the consequence, because he’ll wear his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see. 

Their unannounced entrance on the training yard naturally surprised the knights, knights to be, and Sir Alric. 

“Why, my Princes, you are early for-”

“Leave us.” Jon’s voice cuts through the cheery greeting. His voice carried out among the men as though it’s an order from a general. His presence _demands_ attention and people have little choice but to obey. The men, older and more experienced than the both of them combined, shuffled their weight, uncomfortable at the sight of a Targaryen angered.

Lines of men bow to them as they exit, leaving Sir Alric. 

“You’ll be fighting the prince?” The castle swordsman guesses. 

“Aye,” Jon replies, his jaw clenched, eyes blazing of furious heat like the sun. “and you best stay out of this, sir.” 

_I have awakened the dragon and offended the ferocious wolf in him. Sevens, fucking save me._ Aegon silently prayed, a slight tremor in his knees.

The old man doesn’t argue, only lingers at the edge. 

Aegon is trained in equal fervour as Jon. If battle is needed, a prince should know how to defend his future, the crown that cradles Father’s head. But, he thinks, as he unsheathes his sword, Jon is more focused on the violence in swordplay than he is. Handling a sword is one of the requirements for being a prince, in defending his kingdom against invaders within and outside the city walls.

But Jon? He _revels_ in the cleverness of outsmarting his enemy with a blade in hand. 

“Don’t kill the heir, Prince Jon.” Sir Alric calls out but does not laugh. “Perhaps you need wooden swords to settle this feud?”

Jon raises his chin in a challenging manner. If Aegon was impulsive as he is, he would’ve taken offense to that gesture. “Dragons prefer gold and steel sir. And we never run from a fight.” He raises his sword, pointing it to the reluctant participant. “Shall we?”

_Gods no. I’d be killed._

“Can’t we talk about this?” Aegon whines but he yelped, blocking Jon’s aggressive swipes. He jumped back, avoiding the edges of his attacks. It’s much more intimidating because he can _hear_ Jon’s sword slice through air, telling him of just how sharp and deadly it is, how his brother is.

“Oh I’m done talking.” Jon grunts, pushing against Aegon. “I’m going to make you understand even if I have to kill you.” 

Aegon pivots, wanting to shout at Sir Alric that his brother will most certainly harm him. He shouts in pain as Jon slashed his back, ruining his coat invariably. “Are you mad?” He faces him one more, long swords clashing. 

Seconds Aegon used in removing the coat was enough time Jon spent in knocking him down on the ground, his sword clattering away from his grasp. Aegon’s opponent approached but he kicked him in the chest. Scrambling to reach his sword and the only thing keeping back his enraged cousin; Aegon has to prevent the chance for Jon to knock his teeth in. 

“You’re a fucking coward.” Jon growled out in disgust. “There’s nowhere to hide, no escape, no whore’s skirt to hide underneath like you’re some damn country boy.” He dragged his sword on the ground; a line is drawn, a boundary Aegon foolishly crossed and awoke the dragon in his half-brother.

The initial assumption of Aegon’s bastard brother is that he exudes the North’s winters. His style of unornamented clothing, his distaste of politics and shadow games, the way he looks nothing like a typical Targaryen; the blood of Winterfell won in him.

But now, Jon’s teeth are bared, his shoulders and muscles coiling like he has to restrain himself to truly hurting the heir of the Iron Throne. Because Aegon thinks Jon _can_ kill him and in his hazy anger, the wolf and dragon in his urges for blood to be spilled.

Rregret is bitter on his tongue because _of fucking course_ a wolf would take Aegon’s dismissal of Sansa personally, ruthlessly. Aegon disregarded someone from Jon’s pack and he will pay the price in gaping wounds and blood seeping into the training yard.

The courtyard is a wide square dirt path. Aegon scanned the surroundings and found nothing to shield him from Jon’s wrath. 

“I’m sorry, Jon, okay! I didn’t mean to insult her like that!” Aegon reasons, equally barring Jon’s brutal strikes. He swung his long sword against Jon’s side but his brother is quick to pivot, slamming his weapon against Aegon’s side. 

The surface of Jon’s sword is flat and had enough force to throw Aegon off his balance.

The heat and force of his attack burned deep into Aegon’s skin. He knows there will be a wound where he was hit. His heart hammers against his chest, his hands almost releases the sword because of the shines on his palms. His side keeps on burning and his muscles ache. But Jon shows no sign of stopping. 

_He has the joint stamina of Targaryen and Stark. He’s unstoppable, fuck!_ Aegon lunges but Jon easily counters, looking more animal than the sullen boy that usually mopes in the shadows.

Aegon hates how his scared of his own brother but Jon is _intense;_ in a manner he’s never seen before. And it’s all because of the princess, of Jon’s cousin. 

“It seems to me, brother, you’re defending the princess’ honour!” Aegon shouts. 

“Only because you do not care for it.” Jon yells in return. 

_He sees my talking as whining._ Aegon realizes. He has to play by Jon’s… whatever this is to make him understand. He stands up, skimming his hand on the injured side, breaths coming out in pants. 

“Looks to me that _you’re_ the lovesick fool, brother. You’re really of my blood for you want your own cousin. Father would be proud you own up to our heritage and practice it!” Aegon taunts, predictably angering Jon. Bracing himself, he parries Jon’s frenzied advances. They must have circled the entire yard by now. 

Jon backs away, throwing Aegon’s coat at his face. But he grunts in pain when Aegon lunges, Jon dodges well enough and pushes Aegon so he falls down yet again. 

Aegon never thought Jon was _this_ ruthless, _this_ clever in swords play. He never heard him brag about his victories, only that he’s been making progress. _Immense progress, I’d say._ He thinks, raising his hands in the air when Jon points his at Aegon’s chest.

“Would you really gravely injure your brother?” He asks.

Jon straddles him, throwing away their swords and reaches for a dagger hidden in his boot. “The Aegon I know would not abandon his duties; he would not risk offending another monarch and risk war if he was inclined to elope with a girl he pays to see. He’s a prince and everything he does affects the realm he’ll one day rule.” He digs the dagger underneath Aegon’s chin, not caring for how panicked the prince is. Aegon’s legs kicked but he stayed on top, uncaring. “As far as I’m aware, this cowering boy is not my brother. My brother is a prince, not a fool.”

He hastily retrieved his sword, slashing it in the air. Sitting up, his injured side ached that he struggled to breathe. “Jon, I, I’m so sorry!” He laments, eyes watering at seeing his brother try to cover the wound on his neck. 

“Promise me you won’t go to there ever again.” Jon instead grounds out. His hand had lines of red, dots stained his white cotton shirt. Sir Alric noticed, shouting for the court physician. His face is undisturbed by Aegon’s concern and the injury on his neck. 

“Sansa doesn’t deserve to be humiliated like this. She doesn’t even want to be here. Just,” He sighs, running his free hand through his messy curls. “Just be a decent and honourable man to her.” 

_Jon said her name without the title. Just how in love and familiar are they to each other?_

“Marriage should be based on love. We don’t love each other but you, you _care_ for her.” Aegon gently points out. He swallows a gasp when Jon points his dagger on his chest. “I-It _is_ rather obvious. You should be the one to marry her!”

Jon scowls up at him. “Don’t be a romantic, brother, we’re royals. We have material luxury but not the sort that matters to the heart.” He sighs. “And in time you will love her. It’ll be difficult given your current state of foolishness but love will be easy if you respect her.”

_When has he sounded so wise about love?_

Aegon pats Jon on the arm. “Your bloody honour is something dragons never had, Jon, but for you, I shall try the impossible.” 

“Your forms are rusty, deplorable.” Jon laughs. “I cannot believe I won against the Targaryen heir!”

“You didn’t win!”

“What on _Earth_ is happening here?” Rhaenys’s shrill voice pierced through the tense air. She is followed by her ladies trying to catch up to the livid princess, the eccentric and old court physician and his assistant. Her cedar brown eyes are narrowed in fury, her mauve dress is dirtied as she marches to them, clenched hands and her dark curls whipping about in the wind. “Aegon and Jon, I want an answer right this instant!”

“Oh no.” They both chorused.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> m not good in canon fics bc im too concerned abt the names, order of things, and such so yeah we're all disappointed in the end here


End file.
